The Winds that Awaken the Stars
by Gefionne
Summary: **Movie-verse AU Kíli x Tauriel** Tauriel, captain of the guard of the Greenwood, has spent all her life within the borders of the great forest, bound in honor to serve the Elvenking after her parents are killed. When she takes twelve Dwarves and a Hobbit as prisoners and learns of their quest, she must make a choice: obey her king or forsake her people to join them.
1. Chapter 1

_The winds that awakened the stars_

_Are blowing through my blood._

_O how could I be so calm_

_When she rose up to depart?_

_Now words that called up the lightning_

_Are hurtling through my heart._

- William Butler Yeats, "The Maid Quiet"

One

As she peeled the tattered linen from the wound, bright blood poured over her fingers, warm in the crisp air of late autumn. From the leather satchel at her hip she drew a clean dressing and pressed it against the shoulder of her wounded companion. His nostrils flared as he drew a sharp breath, but he made no noises of pain.

"Ingwion," she said turning to the guardsman nearest her, "bring leaves of yarrow."

His eyes widened. "Forgive me, _nikerym_. I cannot recall. Yarrow has a small white flower and—"

"Have you learned nothing from my lessons?" she snapped, frowning over her shoulder at him.

He lowered his head, saying nothing.

"Come then," she said, "and hold tight here, just as I am. I will do what you cannot."

The wounded guardsman smirked up at her. "You will leave me in the care of one who is incapable of recalling even the simplest of herbs, Tauriel?"

"Be still, Legolas," she said, smiling, "and you will come to no harm."

As Ingwion approached, Tauriel arranged his hands, ensuring he could stanch the bleeding. The yarrow would stop it and a mixture of water and powered willow bark would numb the pain until they could clean and dress the wound properly.

"Be swift, _mellon_," said Legolas as Tauriel rose. "I feel a gray haze descending over me. I can…smell the sea."

He teased her, as she well knew. The wound was not grave. It was painful and bled, but it would heal cleanly and the prince of the Greenwood would have another scar to boast.

Ingwion, the youngest of their company, knew little of healing, and from the fearful look he turned upon Tauriel at Legolas' words, she could see that he believed his prince was nearing his death.

Unsure if she could reply without laughter, Tauriel simply nodded to them and ran into the trees to the east.

Once beyond the sight of the party, she slowed, chuckling. It was short journey to the place where the guards' latest kills lay, but Tauriel was unable to resist prolonging Ingwion's suffering for a few moments longer, even if at Legolas' expense. It was a cruel trick, but perhaps it would teach young Ingwion to listen when she instructed him.

"A warrior of the Eldar must know the herbs that can dull pain, draw poison, and heal even the gravest of wounds," she had told him, as her tutor had taught her. "Healing is a weapon, just as is your sword or bow. It is the last defense. You must know how to take a life, yes, but also how to preserve one."

Tauriel could almost forgive Ingwion his disinterest. His youth demanded that he make his name among their people, and little glory lay in the mending of wounds. Much more was to be gained by inflicting them.

There had been little chance for battle before the darkness descended upon the Greenwood. For centuries King Thranduíl's people had known only peace beneath the boughs the ancient trees.

To touch their thick bark now was to feel the sickness in them. What was green had all but disappeared, replaced by dying leaves and the shadow of perpetual twilight. Few creatures remained, leaving the forest silent and still as a tomb.

And then the spiders had arrived. Spawning near the ruined fortress of Dol Guldur, they twisted their silk throughout the wood, suffocating the trees. An ill fetor permeated the air wherever they ventured.

Tauriel had heard that the Men of the Lake had taken to calling the forest Mirkwood.

_It is a fitting name_, thought she as she stepped over the fallen form of one of the great spiders. Perhaps this was the one that had slashed at Prince Legolas, tearing through his clothes and into his flesh. Or perhaps it was one of the many others they had slain that day.

Once the spiders had come to the forest, the king had charged Tauriel and the guard she captained to rid their lands of the monstrous creatures. Two patrols prowled during the daylight, each returning with more and more kills as the seasons passed. After sunset, the gates of Thranduíl's house were closed, three guards posted at each until morning. There was yet to be an attack after dark, but Tauriel was certain it would not be long. The spiders were growing bolder and more numerous.

A patch of green just beyond a severed spider's leg caught her eye. Drawing one of her daggers, she sliced a few feathery leaves from the plants in the loose soil. Whispering her thanks, she tucked the leaves away in her satchel and sprinted back to join her companions.

"Blessed Valar!" Ingwion said when she arrived. "He's fading, Tauriel!"

Gesturing him away, she knelt beside Legolas. He was groaning as if in great pain, his right arm clutching at his breast. As Tauriel removed the blood-soaked dressing, though, he winked.

From behind her, Tauriel could hear the five other guards holding back laughter as they assured Ingwion that all would be well.

Shaking her head, Tauriel began crushing the yarrow fronds. In the common tongue, which Ingwion had not yet mastered, she said, "If you truly wish to frighten him, Legolas, feign death and let my medicine bring you back from it."

"I am not so cruel as that," he said, through clenched teeth.

"And when will you end this farce?" Tauriel asked, arranging the crushed fronds on his shoulder. Taking a small vial from her satchel, she poured some of the powder into her hand. Mixing it with water from the flask Legolas carried, she applied it to the wound.

"When it suits me," he replied. "Ah, but that does feel better."

He made to sit up, but Tauriel pushed him back against the forest floor. "Not until I bind it."

Her practiced hands made quick work of the binding and soon she was pulling Legolas to his feet. He gave her a quick smile before feigning a spell of dizziness. Hugging Tauriel's shoulder for balance, he gave a squeeze of sincere thanks. She crooked a brow, the corners of her mouth turning up. The prince was incorrigible at times, but he never neglected to give gratitude where it was due.

"Are you well, my lord?" asked Ingwion, his eyes wide. "Can you walk?"

"I am fine," Legolas replied, turning a stern look upon the young guardsman. "_Now_. Lady Tauriel has saved my life more than once with her gifts."

_Not an untruth_, she thought, _though with blades and bow rather than herbs._ It was not often he took a wound.

"And you will do well," Legolas continued, "to mind her lessons. I am understood?"

"Yes, my lord," said Ingwion, his fair skin flushed with shame.

"Lead the way home, then," Tauriel said. "Slowly, for the sake of our wounded prince."

Legolas gave her a sidelong look, but continued to lean against her. He said, in Westron, "If you think you are punishing me, my friend, you are mistaken."

"I am only lending credence to your terrible injury," she replied, taking up an easy pace. "And my company is never a punishment. You should be honored."

She expected a quip in return, but instead found Legolas looking at her, his expression serious. "I am."

Tauriel felt a familiar uneasiness in her gut. Legolas had begun to look differently at her of late. Upon every occasion she had wished only to melt away into the forest and be free of his gaze. Her affection and admiration for him were immeasurable, but he was her brother in arms and her liege lord. She loved him as such and not beyond.

Looking away, she said, "Thank you for what you said to Ingwion. He will learn…in time."

"He had best do it soon. The number of spiders grows every day. This wound is not the first one your guard has suffered and it will not be last."

"If only your father would allow us to take the fight to Dol Guldur," said Tauriel, frowning. "We could burn their eggs and rid ourselves of them for good."

"Your intentions are noble," Legolas sighed, "but my father's will is immutable as steel."

"It is a shame, then, that there are no more Dwarven smiths under the Mountain," Tauriel said, "for _they_ can bend steel."

Legolas laughed, though there was sharp edge to it. "Do not speak to my father of Dwarves. He—"

"Bears a great dislike for the line of Durin," Tauriel finished, smiling. "I know. You've said it more times than I care to remember."

Legolas grinned. "I have spent centuries at my father's side, Tauriel, and you have been a friend to me for the brief six hundred years of your life. Yet, you know me better than my own kin."

"You have been my friend for so long a time," she said, "that you are my kin."

His brows knit, but before he could speak, the sound of snapping branches and the cries of battle reached their ears. He sprang away from Tauriel, and both turned toward the noise.

"It cannot be the second patrol," she said. "Not so early."

"Too many voices," said Legolas. "And too loud. Someone trespasses in my father's kingdom." Disregarding his wound, he lifted his bow over his head and nocked an arrow. "Come on!"

"Guard of the Greenwood," Tauriel called, drawing her own weapons, "to me!"

Charging after Legolas, she took hold of a low branch and swung up into the trees. Springing from bough to bough, it was not long before she saw the shadowy expanse of a spider descending by a single length of silk. Taking aim, she fired a bolt, severing the silk and sending the spider to its death below.

"Watch out!" called a deep voice in Westron. The crash of the spider's corpse and a few cries of surprise followed.

Peering down, Tauriel's eyes grew wide. Having spent all her life in Mirkwood, where travel beyond the borders was forbidden, she had seen only her own people and the Men with whom they traded. Yet here was a company of Dwarves fighting with ferocity and, if she was not mistaken, joy.

Some wielded axes nearly as tall as they themselves. Others held swords. One of them was so small that he carried a weapon that would have been but a long knife in an Elf's hands.

"Get down, Fíli!" one dark-haired Dwarf yelled as he drew back the string of a stout bow.

Another, yellow of hair and beard, dropped to his chest into the dirt, allowing the bolt his companion fired to strike home in the maw of a spider. The creature hissed and spat, but did not fall.

The Dwarf Fíli sprang agilely to his feet. "You'll not take this kill from me, brother!" he said and struck a tremendous blow to the head of the spider. Screeching, it lurched to the side and fell dead. Laughing, the Dwarf ran to aid his brethren.

The guardsmen began to appear then, entering the fray alongside Legolas. Their battle fury was a sight to behold, each warrior moving fluidly around their foes, coming close only to deal the final blow. Tauriel was prepared to join them, but her eyes were drawn again to the dark-haired Dwarven archer.

Firing arrow after arrow, he struggled to keep pace with the spiders pouring from the trees. So focused was he that he did not see the massive, black creature stalking him.

Tauriel aimed and fired, but her arrow went astray, grazing the spider. She watched as the Dwarven archer was knocked to the ground, his bow snapping with a sickening _crack_ as it buckled beneath his weight. She could hear the clackingof the spider's jaws as it hovered above him, prepared to strike.

With a cry, she sprang down from the trees, stabbing through the eye of one spider with an arrow before she fired it at another. Tucking into a roll as she landed on the forest floor, she drew the twin blades from her back and dispatched the spider that held the Dwarf.

"Throw me a dagger!" he called once he gotten to his feet . "Quick!"

Though she knew another spider approached him, she replied, "If you think I'm giving you a weapon, Dwarf, you are mistaken." Ending the life of the spider she faced with a slash beneath its head, she turned and threw the blade into the pate of the other.

With a sputtering hiss, it fell in a heap at the Dwarf's feet, a thick pool of saliva and blood sliding toward his boots. He took a step back. Feeling the sharp prick of Tauriel's arrow at the back of his neck, though, he froze.

"Take another step," she said, "and you'll meet the same fate as this monster."

"May I at least turn," he said, "and look upon the face of my rescuer?"

Tauriel appraised him. The top of his head came just to her breastbone, giving her the advantage of height. But he was broad of shoulder and his arms were powerful from drawing a bow. She was quicker, though, and he unarmed.

"Slowly," she said. "And raise your hands."

"Slow, aye," he said, lifting his arms and haltingly coming around to face her.

She drew tight her bowstring as a warning.

He saw, but did not flinch.

Long, disorderly hair fell around his face, which was, to Tauriel's surprise, covered only with a dark dusting of beard. His nose was narrow and straight. The eyes that regarded her were brown.

Bending from the waist, he brought his chin against the point of her arrow. "Lady Elf, you have saved my life. I am in your debt."

"I am taking you prisoner," she said, cocking an eyebrow. "Consider your debt paid."

"I am not released so easily," he replied, a corner of his mouth turning up.

Tauriel nearly returned the smile, amused by his cheekiness, but she kept her countenance unmoved. "Come this way," she said, inclining her head back toward the rest of her guardsmen.

"As you wish, Lady Elf," the Dwarf replied as he took a few steps ahead.

When they arrived, the guardsmen still had their bows trained upon the bedraggled company. Legolas stood across from the one who must have lead them, a stern Dwarf with a thick beard and a poison look.

"What now, Elf?" he demanded, advancing.

"Do not think I won't kill you, Dwarf," said Legolas in Westron, pulling his bowstring tight. "It would be my pleasure."

"Easy, _mellon_," said Tauriel in Sindarin. "We must take these prisoners to your father. Undoubtedly he will want know their business here."

"What is that Elven witch saying?" demanded one of the Dwarves, his bald head covered in tattoos.

She turned a cold look upon him. "Only that you are trespassers in the lands of King Thranduíl and now you are at his mercy."

"Thranduíl?" asked the smallest of their company—beardless and barely tall enough to reach Tauriel's elbow—looking to the others. "Is that not the trai—"

"Quiet, Bilbo!" snapped a Dwarf with a beard white as snow.

"Bring us to the king, then," said the stern Dwarf to Legolas, "and we shall see if there is any honor among the Elves of Mirkwood."

Legolas reached for his dagger. "Mind your tongue!"

"Enough," said Tauriel. "Search them. Take their weapons, bind their hands, and blindfold them."

The guardsmen were none too gentle as they rifled through the surcoats of the Dwarves, unburdening them of blades and axes. Some tore lengths of cloth from the Dwarves' own clothing to tie around their eyes. Tauriel did not care for it, but it could not be helped just then.

"Edrahil, Fingon," she called. "Bear these weapons back with you."

The twin brothers nodded their assent.

As Tauriel passed by the archer, he called, "Are you not going to search me, Lady Elf? After all, I could have anything down my trousers."

She stopped, lifting a brow. "Or nothing, Master Dwarf."

He smiled one-sidedly. "Then is it my coat you will tear to blind me or your own?"

Reaching into her satchel, she produced a length of rolled bandage. "Neither."

The archer's face fell.

Tauriel bit back laughter as she wound the bandage around his head.

"You bind a man tightly," he said as she finished.

"I have healed enough fools who would loosen their dressings to know how best to cinch a knot."

He said something more, but Tauriel's attention had turned to Legolas.

Pulling an elegantly tooled portrait case from the coat of a red-bearded Dwarf, the prince asked, "Who is this? Your brother?"

Bristling, the Dwarf barked, "That is my _wife_!"

"And what is this horrid creature?" Legolas continued, his face screwed up with displeasure. "A goblin mutant."

"That's my wee lad, Gimli."

Raising a brow, Legolas snapped the case closed. "Perhaps I shall keep this to show our own children just how hideous—"

Astounded to hear such cruelty from the lips of her friend, Tauriel called for him.

Dropping the portrait case back into the Dwarf's hand, he made his way over to her.

Having only wanted to draw him away, she sought for what to say. "It will…take some time…to journey with thirteen, no! fourteen bound Dwarves. But…we must alert the king as quickly as possible. Will you not run ahead and tell him of our coming? He would wish to hear it from you."

Legolas frowned, but assented. "I will look for you by the setting sun."

Tauriel watched as he disappeared into the forest. Ignoring the protests of the Dwarves, she ordered the guardsmen to move them out.

The light had all but gone from the forest by the time they arrived at the western gate of the king's house. Neither the Elves of the guard nor their dwarven prisoners had spoken as they walked, save for an occasional curse when a Dwarf stumbled in his blindness.

As the gate opened, a full complement of armored warriors marched out to greet them. In the white silk of the royal house, Legolas came behind.

"By order of the king," he said, "Tauriel, captain of the guard, is to see the prisoners to the dungeons. All save one." He pointed to the first soul in the column, the stern Dwarf. "He is to come to with me."

"Remove the blindfolds," said Tauriel to the guardsman.

The Dwarves blinked and stretched their faces as their eyes became accustomed to the swiftly failing light.

"Take the rest," said Legolas to Tauriel. "This one goes before my father."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "We are bound by honor to treat prisoners with dignity. I trust you will remember that."

He gave a curt nod before turning to his charge. "Come along, Dwarf," he said, pushing him by the shoulder.

A flurry of protests erupted among the company: "Where are you taking him?" "What are you doing, Elf? Speak up!" "You'll not harm him or you'll taste the keen edge of my axe!"

"He goes before King Thranduíl," said Tauriel in the common tongue. "But he will join you again. In the meantime, I ask that you follow me."

"Where do you take us, she-Elf?" asked the yellow-haired Dwarf she recognized from the battle.

She could hear fear beneath the hostility in his voice. "You are called Fíli, are you not?"

If he was surprised, he did not show it. "I am."

"Tauriel is my name, and no harm will come to any in your company while you are in my charge." Gesturing inside, she said, "Please, come."

Though a number of them still regarded her with suspicion as they passed, the archer flashed her a smile and the old Dwarf of the snowy beard inclined his head.

The dungeons lay two hundred narrow steps below the Great House of Mirkwood. The cells were carved deep into the stone of the caverns, their doors barred with black iron. When Tauriel and the Dwarves arrived, Beleg, the keeper of the keys, was waiting.

"I have opened thirteen of our finest," he said, his smile sharp and wicked. "Shall I see them to their lodgings?"

Making no attempt to hide her distaste, Tauriel said, "No. My guard will take them. You may follow to lock the gates."

"Very well, _nikerym_," he replied, making a mocking bow.

Turning her back to him, Tauriel made her way down. The first cell remained closed, but the ones beyond it stood open.

"Cut their bonds," she said to her guardsmen. "And search them once more."

Prisoners were to be treated well enough, but never to be trusted. _Not even the archer with the clever tongue and handsome eyes_. She nearly laughed aloud at her own folly. Handsome, were they? No, but they were different. Her people had only eyes of green or blue. His were dark. Perhaps it was that that struck her so.

"Are you sure you don't care to search me, Lady Elf?"

Tauriel glanced down to see the archer, the last of the Dwarves to be free, looking up at her.

"I think not, Master Dwarf." Drawing a knife from her boot, she cut the rope at his wrists.

"More's the pity," he said, going into his cell.

Closing the barred gate behind him, Tauriel said, "Rest well," and left Beleg to his work.

The guard room was empty when she arrived. A fire still burned in the hearth, but the other guardsmen had gone, having cleaned their weapons and hung them.

Divesting herself of the blades she carried and her bow and quiver, Tauriel took the oil cloths and whetstone out into the night. The balcony was shaded by the towering trees, but when the wind blew, from time to time, she could see the bright moon or the stars beyond. They gave her a sense of peace she knew not elsewhere.

She was not yet finished cleaning her daggers when she heard quiet footfalls from behind her. "How went the audience?" she asked.

"Well enough," Legolas replied, crossing the balcony to stand against its edge. "My father was…civil."

Tauriel was happy for the darkness. It hid her frown. "I am glad to hear it," she managed to say. "And the Dwarf?"

"He was less so."

"He seems an ornery sort."

Legolas' laugh was cold. "That does not begin to describe him."

"And what of their purpose here?"

"Traveling through on the way to points east."

Tauriel could hear that he was not telling her all, but she chose not to press him. "And will they be permitted to continue their journey?"

"Father wishes to wait until after _Mereth en Gillith_ to release them."

"That is three days hence!" Tauriel exclaimed. "What reason has he to hold them?"

Legolas turned to her. "It is the will of the king. Is there another reason that need be given?"

Tauriel sighed in resignation, closing her eyes. For all her life she had been unflaggingly loyal to Thranduíl, but since the day he had refused to go to the aid of the Dwarves of Erebor as the dragon Smaug destroyed their home, she had been given reason to doubt him.

Thrór had tarnished his pride by refusing him the crystal white gems from the Mountain, and in his vanity he had never forgiven the Dwarf king. Now he kept his people as prisoners in their own forest, unwilling to look beyond the borders of his kingdom.

"I remember," Legolas said, "as a child at the Feast of Starlight, both Father and my mother would ride out into the wide meadows beyond the borders of the Greenwood, leading our people to where the stars were clear. The moon was dark, but the light of the heavens still shone upon the crystal surface of Esgaroth and proud peak of Erebor. There was music and dancing. The children would play games throughout the night, picking out shapes in the sky.

"But as I grew and my mother chose to go into the West, Father no longer saw fit to go there, staying instead in his halls, eating and drinking wine until sleep claimed him. By the day the dragon came, the young ones could no longer remember the celebrations beneath the stars. And you, Tauriel, I am sure, had never even heard stories of them before this night."

His voice, so sorrowful, shamed her. She rose and went to him. "Forgive me for my impatience with the king's word. As you say, I am young yet and know little of this immortal life."

Legolas touched her cheek. "Youth is a gift, _mellon nin_. My father's youth and joy went away with my mother. It is for that reason that I have feared so profound a bond. Yet, the friendship you have shown me brings hope to my heart."

"And I will always be a friend to you," said Tauriel, reaching up and drawing his hand down, "whatever may come."

They were silent for a moment before she let his hand slip out of her grasp.

"Your shoulder!" she exclaimed, remembering all at once. "I have not—"

"Eldalótë cleaned and dressed it. Her work will do until the morrow. I bid you goodnight, Tauriel."

"Goodnight to you, Legolas."

She did not linger long after he had gone. Taking a torch from the sconce in the guard room, she made her way to her own chamber. It was sparse, furnished with little more than a bed, a simple wardrobe, and hearth. She did not require much more than that. A child of just over one hundred years when her mother and father had perished, Tauriel had been apprenticed to the Healer of the House and given a novice's place among the guard of the wood. In both roles she had learned to keep only the things she deemed essential. Fine gowns and diadems meant far less to her than a sturdy pair of boots, a sharp knife, and a taut bow.

Lighting a fire in the hearth, she hung her weapons in their places near the door and undressed. Sliding beneath the fur coverlet on her bed, she settled down to rest through the night. As warmth spread through her, she could not help but think of the Dwarven archer in the chill of a dungeon cell.


	2. Chapter 2

Two

"'Rest well?' Ha! There is little chance of that with damp stone for your pillow."

Kíli, son of Dís and sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield, glared up at the Elf who mocked him. He looked much the same as any other of their kind, long of limb and hair, fair of skin. But there was a cruel satisfaction in his eyes as he slid a sizable iron key into the lock of the cell door and turned it with a deep _thud_.

"Do not bother to call for food or drink, Dwarf filth," said the keeper of the keys. "You will be given none this night."

"Even if it were offered," spat Kíli, "I would take nothing from your hands."

Tapping the large ring of keys against the bars of the cell door, the Elf smirked. "Then starve. It makes no matter to me."

Kíli watched the keys as they swung with each tap, memorizing the shape of one that would free him.

"'Rest well,'" the Elf laughed as he turned away.

Kíli was glad to see the back of him. With a sigh, he leaned against the stone of his cell, his eyes closing. What a mess their company found themselves in. It was less than a fortnight until Durin's Day, and if they could not reach the hidden door on Gandalf's map by the last light of autumn, their quest was for naught.

The Elves of Mirkwood were a different sort than those they had met in Rivendell. There the Company had been welcomed as guests, albeit cautiously. Here they were insulted, robbed, and imprisoned.

Thorin had been taken from them and to what end, Kíli knew not. His uncle had been a father to him since his own was slain, and on this quest it was Kíli's duty to guard and protect him. Locked in a cell, he could not honor that oath.

The words of the Elf maid Tauriel came to his mind: "No harm will come to any in your company while you are in my charge." He needed to believe, for Thorin's sake, that what she said was true.

"Kíli. Is that you?" said a small voice, seemingly from nowhere. "Can you hear me?"

"Bilbo?" Kíli replied, going once more to the front of his cell.

"Yes!" said the Hobbit. "I heard voices. Thought I recognized yours."

"I can hear you," Kíli said, "but I cannot see you."

"Nor I you," said Bilbo. "I am in the cell adjacent, and I am glad to hear a friend's voice." A pause. "This is a right muddle, isn't it?"

"Aye."

"And I suppose we cannot expect Gandalf to appear and talk some sense into these Elves this time. We shall just have to find a way out of it ourselves."

Kíli could not help but smile at the Hobbit's matter-of-factness. Nothing seemed to break his spirit, even an Elven dungeon.

"Perhaps that is what Thorin is doing now," he continued. "Negotiating…or parlay. Whatever it's called."

"Aye," said Kíli. "Though I cannot see that these Elves are as reasonable as those we met before." He scowled as he recalled the cruel barbs the light-haired Elf had thrown at Gloin about his wife and son.

"Rivendell," Bilbo sighed. "What a lovely place."

"Too still for me," Kíli replied, gruff.

"I don't think I will ever understand Dwarves. Must you always be fighting and moving? Can you not settle?"

"Uncle believes we can. I trust hi—" Kíli was cut short by the echoing of raised voices from the cells above.

"Keep your hands off me, Elf!" growled Thorin. "I can see myself to a cell."

"Mind yourself, Dwarf," said the keeper of the keys, his tenor unmistakable. "Or perhaps I shall tell the king that you should stay with us for a great while longer."

There was a wet slap against stone. Kíli could imagine Thorin having spit at the feet of the Elf.

"I do not fear you," said Thorin. "I doubt Thranduíl even knows your name. An audience with him would be far beyond your reach."

The door of the cell slammed shut and a moment later Kíli could hear the keeper of the keys muttering in the slippery, silken tongue of the Elves as he ascended the stairs.

"What news, Thorin?" asked Balin. His voice sounded far away, coming from one of the upper cells. "Did the king offer you terms?"

"He did," said Thorin. "He would send bowman to accompany us to Erebor in exchange for the diadems stolen by Smaug and a share of the treasure."

"That is good news!" said Gloin. "There is surely enough gold in the dragon's horde to sate him."

"I told him no."

"Why, Thorin?" cried Balin. "With the strength of the Elves we could slay the dragon! There would be no need to send Bilbo into the horde to steal the Arkenstone. Our people would need not muster for war. They would come home to pay homage to the King Under the Mountain. The Elves were once our allies. This is the moment to put aside old grudges."

"Thranduíl proved already that he cannot be trusted," said Thorin. "Had he stood against Smaug sixty years ago, our people would never have had to live in exile. He is an oath-breaker and a coward. We can succeed without him."

"He will release us then, Uncle?" asked Fíli, his voice closer to Kíli than the others.

"I am to have another audience with him three days hence," Thorin replied with distaste. "He believes that in that time I might decide to accept him."

"Then you must!" said Balin. "We can afford three days, but no longer."

Kíli waited for Thorin's reply, but none came.

Balin called his name once more and then fell silent.

"Do you think there's any convincing him?" asked Bilbo quietly.

"He made the choice he thought was right," Kíli replied. "We must find another way out of here, just as you said."

Stepping back into the dark of his cell, he crouched against the wall. Thorin had looked out for the scattered Dwarves of Erebor from the day they were driven from their homeland. His decisions has always been made for the good of their people, and Kíli knew never to question him. Yet, there was wisdom is what Balin had said. The Elves could help them.

Seeing them fight was something Kíli would not soon forget. They had appeared from the trees as if they were a part of the forest that had simply been lying in wait to defend it. They fought fiercely, but with a grace that no Dwarf or Man could hope to match.

When the Elf maid Tauriel had come down from the branches, her hair had burned behind her as though it were flame. Quick as cat she moved from foe to foe, leaving death in her wake. As she wrestled her bow from the maw of a spider, she smiled with the sheer delight of battle. Kíli, too, smiled to recall it.

The maidens of Rivendell, in their fine gowns of silk and linen, had earned few glances from him and his kin. They were too much like moving sculptures, elegant but lifeless.

Dwarf maids, few of them as there were, were always quick to laugh and as boisterous as any lad at table. They were hardy and full of joy, brightening any room into which they walked. Where their beauty was the sun, the fairness of the Elves was as cold and unapproachable as the moon.

Yet, Tauriel seemed to shine with all the life the others lacked. It was as though the dark and dreariness of Mirkwood receded when she was near. Even as she held an arrow to his throat, Kíli had been unable to look away from her.

For all her light, though, she remained unmoved by his teasing, as every Dwarf maid had been before. Their eyes had always turned to Fíli and his fine yellow beard. For the love he bore his brother, Kíli could not begrudge him the attention. He was, after all, to sit the Throne of Erebor after Thorin.

That Kíli was glad of. He had never wished for such a heavy burden. He preferred the freedom of the roving life they had led.

"Can you not settle?" Bilbo had asked.

Kíli would stand with his uncle and his brother when they took back the Mountain, but he knew he would not stay.

He wished to see the lands of Men, Rohan and Gondor, and journey the length of the Misty Mountains. Perhaps he would even venture back to Rivendell and beyond to the Mountains of Angmar or the distant isle of Himling. He was young yet and could always return to dwell beneath the Mountain when he grew as old and gray as Balin.

He knew that if he again passed through Mirkwood as an old man, none would know him. Yet, the Elf maid Tauriel would look the same, her beauty and light unmarred by time.

He shook his head in an attempt to banish both her and the thought of journeys from his mind. Escape was all he should be considering. As he looked around him, though, his mouth fell open in a wide yawn. He thought, _Perhaps I'll sleep a while and then consider._

Crossing his arms tight across his chest, he let his chin fall and sleep claim him.

Kíli awoke to Thorin's voice. "I'll take no food from Elven oath-breakers!" he snarled. "If you can call that food. It would be better suited to dogs."

"Then it is just what you deserve," replied the keeper of the keys.

"I'll have your head for that, Elf!" Dwalin roared.

"You'll keep a civil tongue when you address us," said Balin.

"Oi!" howled Bofur. "Do you know to whom you speak?"

"To Dwarven dogs, of course!" the keeper of the keys laughed. "You're no bigger than hunting hounds after all."

"How dare you!" Kíli cried, though his voice was lost amongst the fury of the others.

A clear alto cut through the fray, sharp as a dagger's edge, "Silence, Beleg! There is no honor in keeping prisoners only to abuse them."

Scrambling to the front of his cell, Kíli pressed his face against the cold bars, craning to see who spoke. "Bilbo, can you see?"

"No," the Hobbit replied, "though I recognize that voice. It's the Elf maid, I'd swear upon my mother's feet."

"What business has she here?" asked Kíli.

"I haven't the foggiest," said Bilbo, "but I'm glad she is. That Beleg fellow endears himself to no one with such foul words. Thorin will never agree to take help from his folk if he keeps it up."

Thorin would not relent no matter what the keeper of the keys said to him, Kíli knew that for certain.

"Tauriel," said the Elf Beleg, his voice thick with disdain. "Is your place not with your guard?"

"Mine is the second watch this day," she replied. "I may go where I please before and after it."

They exchanged words in their own tongue, the lilting tones betraying nothing of what was being said. After a few moments, though, Kíli heard the distinct jangling of the keys disappearing above.

"Please eat," he heard the Elf maid say. "We are not attempting to poison you."

"I am not hungry," Thorin growled in reply.

"As it please you," she said, "though perhaps the others are."

Kíli heard nothing but gruff expressions of refusal, each growing steadily closer to his cell.

"I should say I'm quite peckish," said Bilbo.

Kíli bit back a groan.

The Elf maid replied, "And here I thought Dwarves did not eat."

"Well, I can't speak for them," Bilbo continued, "but Hobbits are always keen on breakfast."

"Hobbits?"

"Halflings. Shirefolk. Quite different from Dwarves in fact."

"That I can see. You are certainly more amiable, Master…"

"Baggins. At your service."

"Would you please shut your mouth?" Kíli called. "Or do you plan on making introductions for us all?"

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," said Bilbo, sounding genuinely abashed.

Kíli sat back against the wall of his cell, muttering, "Mahal preserve us from the cordiality of Hobbits."

"I would find their company much more cheerful than that of your folk," said the Elf maid, appearing beyond the bars. She was without her armor, dressed in a belted green tunic and hide leggings that laced up the full length of her legs. Her hair fell down her back, the ends curling near the crooks of her knees.

"Forgive us," Kíli replied, dry, "but captivity does little to inspire the good humor of Dwarves."

Tauriel looked down her nose at him, holding out a package wrapped in threadbare cloth. "I suppose you, too, will refuse to break your fast."

Kíli went to nod, but the empty growl of his stomach betrayed him.

Tauriel smiled, her teeth straight and white. "Perhaps Dwarves and Hobbits have more in common than I have been led to believe."

"Give it to me, then," Kíli grumbled. Taking the package from her hands, he uncovered bread and cheese. Taking the bite of the latter, he made a face. "Day-old bread and cheese harder than the stone of the Blue Mountains. Delightful."

Frowning, Tauriel turned away.

Knowing his mother would have given him a hard slap for such rudeness, Kíli grimaced, but said, "Thank you, Lady Elf."

She stopped, her straight back still facing him. "You are welcome, Master Dwarf."

Struck by a sudden desire to keep her a moment longer, Kíli said, "You must have had some strong words for the keeper of the keys to send him off in such a huff."

"Like you," she said, looking back over her shoulder, "Beleg could take a lesson in manners. I simply reminded him of that."

"Indeed," said Kíli, taking a bite of the bread.

Tauriel spun slowly on her toes to face him again. "I am curious," said she. "How is it that a Dwarf learned to shoot as you do?"

Kíli shot her a grin. "Like the look of my bow arm, do you?"

"You allow your elbow to fall," she replied. "A mistake even our children do not make."

He narrowed his eyes. "You are treading on dangerous ground, lady."

She tipped her head slightly in dismissal. "If you do not wish to tell me, I will go. It was simply a question I had been meditating on."

"I've been in your thoughts, then," Kíli said before he could stop himself.

"Perhaps," she replied, one corner of her mouth turning up.

His breakfast forgotten, Kíli rose and approached the bars.

She followed his movements with her eyes, looking him over.

Leaning against the bars, he said, "Where would you like me to begin?"

"Tauriel!" called another from the stairs beyond Kíli's cell.

She turned and responded, frowning.

When Kíli recognized the Elf who appeared at her side, his good mood disappeared as quickly as it had come. It was the Elf of light hair who had taken Thorin from them and insulted Gloin so grievously. He beckoned to the Tauriel, summoning her elsewhere.

Turning a last time to Kíli, she said, "Good day, Master Dwarf."

As they went from his sight, he turned back into the cell. Miming the draw of a bow, he looked back at his elbow. "I _do not_ allow it to fall," he grumbled.

Tauriel turned at the sound of her name. Legolas was descending the stairs, his expression grim.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in Sindarin.

"I should ask you the same," he replied. "I have been looking for you all morning. My father has requested your presence."

Tauriel did not hide her surprise. "For what purpose?"

"He wishes to hear your account of the capture of the Dwarves."

"Does he expect it to differ from your own?"

"I cannot say," Legolas replied. Glancing away from her, he scowled down at the Dwarven archer.

The Dwarf returned his glare.

"Come," said Tauriel, touching Legolas' shoulder. "We must go to your father." She bid the archer good day.

As she and Legolas strode away, he asked, "Why do you allow that Dwarf to stare you so?"

"He does not stare," she said, bemused.

Legolas scoffed. "Then your eyes fail you, _mellon nin_."

"Such interest in the passing glance of Dwarf," Tauriel laughed, slipping her arm through his. "I might assume it is you who covets his attention."

"Be silent," Legolas said, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"No denial," Tauriel teased. "Shall I warn the Dwarf to guard his heart?"

As they approached the audience chapter, Legolas stopped, abruptly turning her to face him. "You must not trust these Dwarves, Tauriel. They will spin only lies in hopes of you freeing them."

Sliding out of his grasp, she frowned. "I do not trust them, but I cannot believe that lies drip from their mouths as honey from the comb."

"You'd best not tell my father that," he replied. "I'll look for you in the barracks this afternoon."

Legolas disappeared into the passage beyond, leaving Tauriel before the great doors to King Thranduíl's audience chamber.

Twice her height and as wide as her outstretched arms, the wooden panels, each one ten inches thick, were carved to depict the great battles fought against the fire serpents of the North. A young Thranduíl stood alone in the right panel, his bow drawn back as he prepared to fire into the maw the dragon curled around a boulder. The king's face was marked by dragon fire yet he fought on.

It was a story Tauriel had heard since she was a child. Thranduíl, then a prince no older than her own six hundred years, had led a small party into the den of a she-dragon and her clutch. Without mercy they slew the kits, each taking a claw for a trophy. The she-dragon, wracked with grief, simply lay down and allowed Thranduíl to stab her through the eye. As her heart stopped, though, she sighed out the last of the fire in her belly, filling the den with blue flame.

Thranduíl threw himself into the space between the dragon's neck and leg, evading the worst of the heat, but his companions were burned to ash, only their fine armor lying on the floor of the den, warped and twisted by the heat. Dazed and severely burned, Thranduíl managed to make his way back down the camp of his father.

The healers spent three full days tending his wounds, but there was little they could do to mend his face. A vain and proud prince, when he returned home to the Greenwood, he spent months studying the ancient texts until he discovered a way to mask his scars. It was dark sorcery some said, but that seemed an unlikely tale. Such small magics were easy work for an Elf as powerful and aged as the king.

Taking a breath, Tauriel pushed the right door. Despite its great weight, it opened soundlessly.

The audience chamber was dark within, its vaulted ceilings wound with an age's growth of ivy and moss. What few torches burned in the wrought iron sconces did little to light the shadowed corners of the room. It could have been one of the most beautiful places within the Great House of the Greenwood, its colonnade open to the sky, filling the chamber with the golden light of a setting sun. But Thranduíl preferred the cool green of light that shone through the leaves of the ivy when he sat upon his throne of twisted branches and antlers. When Tauriel entered, though, the great chair stood vacant.

"My lord?" she said, her quiet words carrying throughout the space.

"Ah, my son succeeded in finding you, Tauriel," said Thranduíl, gliding from the darkness behind one of the columns. "You were elusive this morning."

Clasping her hands behind her back, she replied, "That was not my intention, my lord."

"Of course it was not," he said, smiling as he approached her. His head was crowned with an ornate circlet of silver, and he moved so silently that Tauriel could hear the hissing of his silk robes against the marble of the floor. His expression was cordial, but his eyes were hard, demanding an explanation.

"I was in the dungeons, my lord," she said. "I wished to know how the prisoners were faring. I found Beleg spitting insults at them. I reminded him that he speaks for the King of the Greenwood, who treats all in a just manner."

Thranduíl's smile broadened. "You comport yourself with unpolluted virtue, Tauriel. It is one of the indulgences of youth." Taking a few steps away from her, he continued, "And what do you make of our prisoners?"

"They are discourteous," she said, "and have a rough manner of speaking. Their weapons were better cared for than their clothes, but they hold themselves with pride, even within their cells." She thought of the sternest of the Dwarves, too proud to break his fast, and of the archer with his easy smiles and teasing.

Turning back to her, Thranduíl lifted a brow. "They intrigue you."

"They are the first Dwarves I have seen, my lord," she replied. "I admit that I am curious about them."

"You should not be. They are little more than brutes, even less civil than Men. Turn your attention from them. You have other duties…which you appear to be neglecting. I thought I ordered that spider's nest to be destroyed not two moons past."

"We cleared the forest _as ordered_, my lord," Tauriel said, forcing her voice to stay even and calm. "But more spiders are coming up from the south. They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could kill them at their source—"

"That fortress lies beyond our borders," Thranduíl snapped. "Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures. That is your task."

Her voice rising, Tauriel replied, "And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?"

"Other lands are not my concern."

Though she had heard this reply countless times, Tauriel could not give up hope that this time he would hear her and grant her permission.

Reading her expression, Thranduíl said, "You are young, Tauriel. You cannot see that the fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here, in this kingdom, we will endure."

"I defer always to your wisdom," she said, ducking her head.

Thranduíl's smile was small, for he knew, just as she did, that her words were empty.

As Tauriel turned to go, he said, "Legolas said you fought well yesterday."

She froze, pinching her eyes shut in the hope the she would be delivered from this moment without having to speak. The expectant silence that hung upon the king's words, though, forced her to turn and meet his eyes. "As did he, my lord."

"He told me you dressed his wound."

"I did."

Thranduíl nodded, but it was not a dismissal. "He has grown very fond of you."

At last, there it was. For a decade she had waited, prepared the lies she had to tell. "I assure you, my lord," she said, the words as familiar to her as old friends, "Legolas thinks of me as no more than a captain in the guard."

"Perhaps he did once," said Thranduíl, slowly approaching her but gliding beyond to the flagon of wine on the table at her back. "Now, I'm not so sure."

"I do not think you would allow your son to pledge himself to a Silvan Elf," she said, the bitterness of her kin finding its way into her voice.

"No, you're right," Thranduíl said as the wine he poured splashed into a chalice. "I would not. Still, he cares for you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

She whirled around to face him. "You know I have never deceived him, my lord! He is my dearest friend and this…fondness for me will wane with time."  
>Taking a deep drink of wine, Thranduíl nodded. "Yes, but you will hasten it by telling him that you can no longer offer him your friendship."<p>

Tauriel's breath caught in her breast, just above her heart. "I cannot not be so cruel to him."

"You can and you will," he said, turning his back to her again. "It is my command. Go now, Captain. Do your duty and obey your king. You have until the night of the Feast of Starlight."

"Yes, my lord," she said, barely above a whisper. Bowing, she made her way out, unwilling to reveal to him the tears falling down her cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

Tauriel was glad that Legolas had chosen not to join the second patrol that afternoon. Upon leaving Thranduíl, she had armed herself and set off into the forest to slay spiders until her body was exhausted and her mind clear. Battle absorbed her thoughts, allowing her a reprieve from the suffering and fury.

Yet, as she drew back her bow, she could not help but dwell upon the happy memories of her dearest friend, each now tainted by the sting of loss.

He had first appeared to her as she stood at the threshold of the cottage she shared with her mother and father. The daughter of Silvan guardsmen of no particular renown, she had heard only stories of the comeliness of the prince's countenance and white-gold hair. But there he was, his silver armor shining despite the black blood that had dried upon it.

So captivated had Tauriel been, she did not see—until he had stopped before her—what he held in his right hand.

Barely more than a child then, she knew little of the weapons she had just begun to handle, but she had long ago learned the curves of the bow Legolas placed into her hands. Her mother's weapon did not rest in her palms, but hummed with the life given it by the tension of the string.

When she looked up at Legolas again, his form was obscured by the tears in her eyes.

"She fought bravely and with honor," he said in the silken tone of the highborn Sindar.

"And…my father," Tauriel managed to say, her words coarse in comparison. "Will he return?"

There was no need for Legolas to speak as he drew the twin blades from his belt, but he said, "I am sorry."

Taking her father's weapons from his hands, Tauriel hung one and then the other at her hips. Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of one hand, she tightened her grip on the bow that now belonged to her. Taking a deep breath, she tried to draw back the string. Her arms began to shake as she struggled. No matter how she pulled, she could barely move it. Crying out in frustration, she released it. Her shoulders fell as she stared at her boots.

Placing two fingers beneath her chin, Legolas raised her face until she met his eyes. "Do not despair," he said, a smile on his lips. "I cannot draw my father's bow."

It was only half a lie, as Tauriel learned many years later. Legolas' marksmanship far surpassed the king's, and there was not a bow in the Greenwood he could not bend. But, Thranduíl had forbidden his son from using his weapons, preferring to mount them in the audience chamber until they were needed again.

Tauriel had hesitantly returned the prince's smile that day, saying, "Truly, my lord?"

"Truly," he replied, chucking her under the chin before rising to his full height again. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said formally, "May I have your permission to take your weapon, my lady?"

Squaring her shoulders, she held the bow out to him.

"A fine weapon," he mused, running his hands over the patterns carved into it. He tugged lightly on the string, but did not draw it back. "But it prefers your hands to mine. It would betray all but you in battle, I fear."

Tauriel smirked. "Father refused to pick it up."

Legolas raised a brow, eyeing the bow suspiciously. Bracing one end against his boot, he deftly unstrung it and handed it back to Tauriel. "When you are strong enough," he said to her, "I will teach you to bend it."

She nodded, clutching the bow to her breast.

"Come now, my lady," said Legolas. "We are going to the Great House." Tauriel's eyes widened.

"I cannot. I live here."

"This place will always belong to you," he replied, gesturing to the cottage, "but you cannot live here alone. The king has found a place for you with the Healer of the House."

"My…my people are warriors," she stammered, touching one of the blades at her hip, "not healers."

"Can you not be both?" Legolas asked. "I am a warrior, and I am prince as well."

"That is not the same," Tauriel said, frowning. "Prince-ing is not a trade."

Legolas forced the smile from his face.

"You're right, but I am right as well. I will see to it that in addition to your work with the Healer of the House, you will train with the other novices in the guard. Will that satisfy you, my lady?"

"It will, my lord."

Looking her over, Legolas asked, "Have you other clothes?"

Tauriel shook her head. She had outgrown her other gowns long before and would have worn this one until it fell above her ankles.

"The Healer's apprentices dress in red and the guardsmen in green. I will arrange to have garments made for you."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You have your weapons," said Legolas. "What else would you have with you in the House?"

"Nothing," Tauriel said. She had long ago put aside her dolls, the only possessions she had.

"Very well, then," said Legolas. "Follow me."

Taking a deep breath, Tauriel took hold of the door.

"Wait!" she cried. "There is one thing." Dashing into the cottage, she climbed onto a stool and reached up onto the mantle above the hearth. She grasped the wooden box that had belonged to her mother. It was wide, though not tall, and was held closed by a tarnished silver clasp. Tucking it into the largest pocket of her dress, Tauriel looked around one last time before crossing the threshold and pulling the door closed behind her.

It was then that she saw them, her kinsmen, standing just beyond their own dwellings, their gazes falling upon her. There were few that had stayed behind when King Thranduíl had gone to war, most of them craftsmen and children, but Tauriel knew them all.

She looked them over—lithe, dark-haired, and garbed in worn fabrics the color of young leaves and old bark—and then up at the prince. He stood a full head taller than any of her people, his hair shining even in the shadows of the deep forest. Though he had been born in the Greenwood, his Sindar blood was unmistakable and unfamiliar. He was about to remove Tauriel from all that she knew, and she was afraid.

Legolas gave her a small smile, offering his hand. She took it gratefully. Without him to lead her, she knew she never would have been able to leave.

They walked through the village and along the winding path toward the Great House. Tauriel gasped as they passed through the southern gate and into the home of the king. She would not be presented to Thranduíl that day. It would be many years before she had that honor.

Instead, she followed Legolas to a small chamber in the east wing of the House, near to where the Healer and her apprentices—male and female, and all decades Tauriel's senior—practiced their arts. The room was adorned with a small table on which sat a pitcher and basin, a wide chest, and a narrow bed.

For the first time since they had enter the House, Tauriel smiled. This was the chamber a solider: bare save the most essential things. There was little difference between it and the nook she had slept in the cottage.

"I will leave you here, my lady," said Legolas, "but we will meet again."

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, bowing her head. When she looked up again, the prince was gone and a tall maiden dressed in a gown of deep red stood in his place.

"I am Eldalótë," she said, brisk. "You are called Tauriel?"

"Yes."

"Well, we will have to get you some new clothes," Eldalótë said, looking her over with disapproval, "and a sturdy brush for your hair. Are you hungry?"

Tauriel nodded.

"Good. You will sup with us now."

She turned on her heel and started out of the room. Tauriel stood as if frozen, unsure of what to do.

"Come on then!" Eldalótë snapped. "We keep a good pace here."

Setting down her mother's bow and her father's blades, Tauriel smoothed her dress as best she could and hurried after her.

For the first hundred years that Tauriel spent as an apprentice, she did little more than learn the names and uses of the herbs she ground for the red-garbed healers. She never treated even a simple cut.

She had hated it at first, but the leaves, barks, and powders slowly began to captivate her. After a time, she had become known to trip and scrape her knees or cut her fingers more often than the others. Yet, the wounds would disappear overnight, treated with the salves she made for herself.

It was not long after that she had been called before Míriel, the Healer of the House. She was Sindar and had come to the Greenwood long, long ago. There was no plant she could not use, and nothing that went on in the House went unnoticed by her.

She had looked Tauriel over with gray eyes, undoubtedly counting the mended tears and patches cleverly woven into her clothes.

"You have been preparing arrowroot," she said. "An herb not permitted for use by a novice."

Tauriel said nothing

"Speak up," snapped Míriel.

"I have not, madam."

"The tips of your fingers are tinged red and you smell of pepper."

Tauriel's eyes widened.

"Yes, madam," she said, hanging her head.

Míriel said, "Look at me, child. Have you succeeded in producing the tincture?"

Holding back a grin, Tauriel drew a small vial from her sleeve. Taking it from her hand, Míriel removed the cork and sniffed the contents.

"Too strong," she said. "It could burn the wound even as it washed away the poison."

"That is why I would coat the wound first in a salve of athelas and honey," said Tauriel. "It prevents the burn and begins the healing even as the poison is withdrawn."

Míriel raised a brow. "Show me."

Tauriel winced. The pain of applying poison oak to her arm and allowing it to darken her skin for a day was still sharp in her memory. She had no wish to do it again.

"Not on yourself, child," said Míriel, almost laughing. "Come with me."

They went together to into the Healer's Hall. Tauriel's mouth fell open as she took in the sight. Many apprentices moved between beds, administering medicines. The room was not dark and thick with the smell of burning herbs, though. It was bright, and clean air blew through it from the open space between the top of the stone wall and the roof.

Míriel stopped at the bedside of a warrior. His face was serene, but his eyes were dark with pain. The flesh of his right arm was marked with poison sores, the centers black and the skin around them a fiery red.

Tauriel drew in a sharp breath, kneeling immediately at his side.

"I need salve, hot water, and scraps of cloth," she said without looking up. Behind her, Míriel waved for another healer to get the items. Placing a hand in his, Tauriel asked the warrior his name.

"Ithadril," he replied, his voice thick.

"I am Tauriel. You have been poisoned and if I do not draw it out, it will plague your blood."

He nodded stiffly.

A young healer arrived and laid the salve, a basin of water, and a pile of boiled cloths at her side.

"This will hurt," said Tauriel, applying the salve to the edges of the wounds.

"It is not so bad," Ithadril said, the corners of his mouth turning up as he winked.

"Not yet," Tauriel replied, as she dropped a small amount of the tincture into the darkest part of one sore.

Ithadril cursed, hissing in pain. Quickly, Tauriel twisted a cloth into a point and dipped it into the hot water. Placing the point into the sore, she watched as the rusty tincture and poison mixture began to seep into the cloth. When she drew it away, the wound was still bright red with inflammation, but the poison was gone. Applying salve deftly with her left hand, she dropped another few drops of tincture into another wound, dipped a clean twist of cloth into the water, and then pressed it into the sore.

She was finished in less than an hour, a quarter of the time such a procedure took when done by other hands. By the time she stood, Míriel and five of her most senior apprentices stood at the side of the bed. They watched and made quiet conversation.

Ithadril, exhausted, thanked Tauriel and closed his eyes to rest.

As she stood, Míriel flashed her a rare smile and ordered one of the other healers to bring the habit of a novice practitioner.

Tauriel spent the days of the next decades garbed in the red of a healer. She had great skill tending to those in the Healer's Hall, but as she discovered, her true gifts lay on the battlefield, both with weapons and bandages.

True to his word, Legolas arranged for her for her train with the novices of the guard. She was permitted to go to the training yard every third day. She had been disappointed with so little time until Legolas had appeared at her chamber door one evening after supper. He told her to bring her weapons and follow him. They went into the fading light of the day, and he taught her to wield blades and bow. Those were long days split between herbs and blades, but Tauriel loved her work.

Over the many years he spent as her teacher, Legolas became her friend and confidant. She had other friends among the guard and the healers, but none were as dear to her as the prince. He had given her the highest commendation before his father when she and two others had been considered to serve as captain of the guard.

Míriel had been there as well. She, too, told the king of the prowess of her apprentice, but admitted that she hoped Tauriel was not made captain so that she might take up the mantle of Healer of the House one day.

"It appears, Tauriel," said the king, his voice deep and resonant in the audience chamber, "that you have a decision to make. How will you serve your lord and those in my realm?"

She felt the weight of the satchel of herbs and bandages at her belt and that of her blades, bow, and quiver. If she choose either life she would not be forced to give them up, but she had always felt cloistered in the House. She breathed easier in the free air of the forest. And from there she could see the stars. Turning to Míriel, she bowed low.

"My lady Healer,"she said, "you have given me a home these many years, and you have given me your knowledge. I am honored that you would choose me to succeed you, but my people are warriors and I wish to honor that legacy." After a moment, she felt a gentle touch at the crown of her head.

"All I ask is that you do not allow your gift to languish."

Rising, Tauriel saw that Míriel was smiling. Grasping her hands, Tauriel brought them to her lips.

"Upon the lives of my mother and father," she said, "I swear that I will not."

When she turned to Legolas, his face was alight with joy. She flashed him a smile as she knelt at before the throne.

"My lord," she said as she drew her bow and placed it before her, "if you should see fit to name me captain of the guard of the Greenwood, I am prepared to serve."

Thranduíl rapped the butt of his staff thrice against the stone of chamber floor.

"Then stand, Captain," said he, "and take command of your guardsmen."

As she was leading her first patrol into the forest that evening, Legolas had appeared. He had worn the green and leathers of a plain guardsman and made quick salute with his bow, as was due the captain of the guard.

Tauriel had hidden a smile, saying, "About time."

Legolas had strode up her with a grin on his face and mischief in his eyes. He waited, though, for her command to march. She had known then that he no longer considered her his student, but accepted her as his commander on patrol. At last, the little girl whose hand he had held as they entered the south gate would stand as his comrade in arms as they crossed the threshold again.

As night settled upon the Greenwood, Tauriel made her last kill. Yet she tarried in returning to the Great House, skirting the barracks, knowing that Legolas would likely be there waiting for her. She was not yet prepared to face her friend, so she sought out the sunken stairway that led to the depths of the House.

The baths were deserted when she arrived, the six steaming pools creating a haze in the cavern. Setting her weapons down, she breathed in the thick air. She disrobed quickly and slid into the water. It was warm enough to sting her skin, but it could not burn away what she would have to do. She cursed.

Were it any other quandary, Tauriel would have gone immediately to Legolas for his counsel. He listened well, and his cool assessment always steadied her. Her temper was far more variable than his. Where she would pace the length of the guard room and chew the tips of her fingernails, he would sit in silence and reflect upon the problem at hand. Only when he had considered it fully did he make a decision.

_He will make a good king_, Tauriel thought, smiling to herself. The feeling faded quickly, though, as King Thranduíl entered her mind again. His command turned over and over in her thoughts, causing the ache in her breast grow more acute. She had never once disobeyed the king—she gave him her unfaltering loyalty and obedience—but she knew she had not the strength to look Legolas in the eye and make him believe that she no longer desired his friendship. She respected the king, but she loved her friend.

"Why must I choose?" she said, her voice bouncing around the vaults of the ceiling and back to her.

She sank into the water, silencing the noise of the world. But thoughts of her abhorrent task would not leave her, driving her up and out of the bath in a sudden fury. She cursed Thranduíl then. The words were acrid on her tongue and part of her was ashamed, but the sorrow and rage that roiled in her gut tamped the guilt down.

If she refused the king's order, she would surely be banished from the realm, never to see Legolas or her home again. Yet, it would be a worse fate to remain in the Greenwood when she was forbidden to speak to the prince.

Tauriel forced her clothing on without drying herself and wove her wet hair into a simple plait down her back. Three days and two nights until _Mereth en Gillith_. She would need them to gather her strength for whatever she chose. Picking up her weapons, she began the slow climb up the staircase that would take her through the dungeons and into the House.

Accustomed to the silence of the cells, she reached for her knife when she heard the voices. She stilled her hand, though, as she recognized the common tongue. She had all but forgotten about the imprisoned Dwarves.

Her brow creased into a deep frown. What was it that Legolas had told her? The leader of their band, the stern Dwarf, was to take the three days before the feast to make a choice: agree to Thranduíl's terms or face the rest of his life in an Elven prison. And Tauriel surmised that those terms did not place the Dwarf in a position any better than her own.

The face of Dwarven archer flashed into her mind. Tauriel caught her breath. Should the stern Dwarf refuse the king, he would not only be forfeiting his life, but condemning his companions to same fate.

"The will of Thranduíl," she spat.

"Did you hear something?" The voice was deep and pleasing to the ear.

"I don't rightly know," was the reply. This voice was brighter, higher, and without the coarseness of the former. Tauriel could not help but smile as she recognized it.

"Who goes there?" The deeper voice again.

"You have keen ears, Master Dwarf," said Tauriel, rounding a turn in the spiral staircase so that she could be seen. "I bid you good evening."

The archer stood at the door of his cell, one hand grasping an iron bar. He looked no worse for wear after a night and a day, Tauriel noted, though the tension in his form was visibly released when he recognized her. He had been on his guard. She could not fault him for that.

"Good evening to you, Lady Elf," he said. "Yours was a face I did not expect to see again. Have you business here or is it good company you're seeking?" The corner of his mouth quirked up for a moment, but he hid it well.

"I am not obliged to explain myself to you," she replied, approaching the cell with measured steps. Despite herself, she slipped easily back into using the haughty tone she had adopted in her banter with the archer the day before. Lifting her chin, she said, "This is the king's stair and I may go where I please."

The Dwarf shrugged, saying, quite loudly, "Well, you can't fault a lad for hoping, eh Bilbo?"

"It is certainly a pleasure to see you again, Lady Tauriel," said the Hobbit from the cell adjacent.

"Good evening, Master Baggins," she said, stepping up a few paces to smile at him. It was his voice she had known, for there was an inherent cheerfulness about it. "Forgive me for not greeting you properly."

"No harm done, my lady," he assured her, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his threadbare trousers. "No harm at all."

They stood in silence for a moment, both searching for more to say. Tauriel was unaccustomed to polite chatter. It was not something her people practiced.

"Fine evening," said Bilbo, looking around the cell. "I assume."

"It is," Tauriel laughed. "I've just come from forest. Shall I describe it?"

"Certainly!"

"There was a bright sun today," she began, "though the wind carried the chill of winter."

"Can you feel the breeze in the forest?" Bilbo asked. "I could not. It was only when I climbed above the trees that I could breathe fresh air."

"You climbed the tall trees?" Tauriel asked.

"Don't let a Hobbit's size fool you, my lady," he said, rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels. "There is much we can do."

"I do not doubt that, Master Baggins."

"The moon must have risen over the trees by now," he said, contemplative.

Tauriel wondered if all Hobbits were so captivated by the weather, but she said, "There's little more than a sliver, for three nights hence is the new moon."

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted.

"It was dank here in the morning," the archer called from below. "The afternoon was equally dank, and it appears that will be dank tonight."

Tauriel frowned down at his cell, though she could not see him. Bilbo followed her gaze. Giving her a small smile, he made a bow. She inclined her head and excused herself. When she arrived before the archer again, she found him sitting with his back against the wall.

"Does the weather bore you, Master Dwarf?" she asked.

"Tremendously, Lady Elf."

"Indeed," said Tauriel, lifting a brow. "Is there something you would rather discuss?"

"That's a fine bow," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you hunt only spiders in your forest or is there game to be had?"

"There was once," Tauriel sighed, "though since the spiders have come, the creatures of the forest have fled."

"Pity," said the archer, shaking his head. "Will you have naught for your Feast of Moonlight, then?"

"Starlight," Tauriel corrected. "The larder here is never empty, and it is rare we kill for meat."

"Now there's a true pity," he groaned, rubbing a hand over his middle. "What I wouldn't give for a rack of lamb just now. We keep quite a number of sheep. Dwarves, I mean."

"I did not know that," said Tauriel wryly.

The archer glanced once to each side of his cell and then leaned closer to the bars. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, "I will tell you a great secret of my people, lady." A pause. "We are not all jewel cutters and armorers." He fell back against the wall and scratched at the dark beard on his chin. "Not that we cannot craft fine things or repair our armor, of course."

"Of course," Tauriel said, a half smile on her lips. The archer looked quite affronted.

"Do you not believe me, Lady Elf?"

"I have no reason to take you at your word," she said, "but I will. This once."

A hand over his heart, he bowed his head. "I thank you, lady."

Tauriel gave a light "_Hmph_," placing her hands on her hips.

"If you are not a goldsmith or an armorer," she asked, "what is your trade, Master Dwarf?"

He grinned, springing onto his feet. Though he was broad and stout, Tauriel could not deny that he was agile.

"Master bowman," he said, standing straight and proud. "The finest archer Dwarf-kind has seen for an age."

Tauriel ran her fingers across the carved wood of her bow and gently plucking the string so that it hummed.

"Will your boasting hold up in a true test of skill?" she asked. "I think not."

Curling his fingers around the thick bars of the cell gate, the archer pressed his face against the iron.

"Are you challenging me, Lady Elf?"

Tauriel shrugged a shoulder, dismissive.

"Then who would you pit against me in this contest if you do not have the courage to stand yourself?"

"You are no position to call me a coward," she said. "It was I who came to your aid when you were on the brink of death by spider bite."

He echoed her shrug.

"It matters not. I would only stand against the finest archer in Mirkwood."

Rising to her full height, Tauriel looked down her nose at him. "I am she. Even Prince Legolas conceded defeat to me in our last tournament."

"Besting a prince," said the archer. "I am duly impressed. Came down from his tower to cavort with the humble captain of the guard?"

Tauriel nearly flinched. His words were far too reminiscent of Thranduíl's.

"Do you often insult your captors for your own pleasure?" she snapped. He grinned, baring white, straight teeth.

"This is my first attempt, for I have never been captured before." He looked down at his hands as though inspecting the nails. "Though I admit, I do derive a certain pleasure from it."

"Legolas does not think himself above me," Tauriel said, her voice softening. "Especially not after I out shot him." She spun back to face the Dwarf. "You've met him. He led the party that _caught you_."

"That was the prince?" said the archer, his brows rising. "I mistook him for your kin."

"Why?" asked Tauriel, brows knit. "We bear no resemblance."

"He is...protective of you," he replied, his face darkening.

Tauriel drew in a slow breath. On their way up from the dungeons a day ago, she had been teasing him about the Dwarves...no, about the archer. While most days Legolas suffered her jabs, she knew to avoid it during his dark moods. On those days he reminded her very much of his father.

"He spoke to you," she said to the Dwarf. "And not kindly."

He inclined his head in assent. "Aye. Not so long ago. I may have…spoken to him of you as he passed this way. He told me to keep my eyes cast down in the presence of a maiden of Mirkwood." The surprise must have shown on Tauriel's face, for the archer added, "I thought perhaps he was a brother to you. Or a cousin."

"And did you have a clever reply for him," Tauriel asked, "as you do for me?"

"Of course not," he said, though he did not bother to hide the spark of mischief in his gaze. "Though I did cast my eyes down and beg the lady forgive me."

"You devious creature!" Tauriel cried, wrapping her fingers tight around the bars of the cell. "That is a slight Legolas will not soon forget! Do you wish to stay in this cell until you end your days?"

"I've been in worse company," he replied, stepping toward her and placing his hands just beneath hers.

"You are a great fool, then," Tauriel snarled. She pushed away from him, pacing across the narrow landing.

"I have upset you," said the archer. "That was not my intention, my lady. Your prince is dear to you—"

"That is none of your concern!" she snarled. "Master Dwarf, I advise you to keep silent should you see him again." Without another word, she began to climb the stairs.

Though she heard him say, "Goodnight, my lady," she did not turn back.

As she reached the highest cell, she heard, "Whatever it is you want with my nephew, Elf, I'll not abide by it." The stern Dwarf was glaring at her from the gloom of his cell. "And keep that prince of yours away as well."

"If you expect me to follow the order of a Dwarf," Tauriel said, "you are just as great a fool as your nephew." Striding away, she entered the passages of the Great House. Her weapons could be oiled in the morning, she decided. All she wished for was the quiet of her chamber and the oblivion of rest.


End file.
